Maison Belle
by buffyaddict
Summary: Sam and Dean are drawn into a hunt by a face from the past. During the hunt Sam does his best to cope with the aftermath of the events in Mystery Spot and find Dean a way out of deal. This takes place between Mystery Spot and Jus In Bello. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Maison Belle 1/2

Author: buffyaddict13

Summary: Sam and Dean are drawn into a hunt by a face from the past. During the hunt Sam does his best to cope with the aftermath of the events in _Mystery Spot_ and find Dean a way out of deal. This takes place between _Mystery Spot_ and _Jus In Bello._

* * *

When the moving truck pulls out of the driveway, her first thought is _this is a huge mistake_. The house is too big. There's too much upkeep. Too much responsibility. She'll never be able to convert it into a bed and breakfast. And even if, miracle of miracles, she pulls it off, she'll probably go bankrupt the first month. She bows her head, takes a deep breath, exhales. She can hear her therapist's voice in hear head. _You can do this, Jayne._ Yes. She can.

Jayne roots through one of the boxes and pulls out a framed photo of Leo. He smiles at her from behind the glass, a blond bowl-cut and dimples. Jayne smiles back at him fondly, rubs a fingerprint off the glass with the sleeve of her shirt. She pulls a second frame from the box. Leo's older in this one, he's wearing glasses, braces on his teeth. The dimples are still there, though. Jayne's heart lurches, threatens to free fall. Nope. None of that. This is a fresh start. She's going to be okay. This will work.

She sets both frames on the coffee table. "Okay, kiddo. We're home. What do you think?" She folds her arms and surveys the room. This will be the parlor. She can almost see the guests sitting in front of the fireplace. The east wall will have a floor to ceiling bookshelf crammed with bestsellers, Agatha Christie mysteries, Lynda Barry books, and board games. She'll have a collection of tea cups–mismatched of course–along the mantle. She'll serve tea every afternoon with a complete silver tea service and finger sandwiches. And scones. And she'll play jazz and classical music and every room will be brimming with fresh-cut flowers.

The bedroom on the first floor will be a guest room. So will three of the four upstairs. The kitchen is modern enough for her to muddle through breakfast or lunch, big enough for the caterers. That leaves the last bedroom as an office and the attic is big enough to convert into a loft. _Her_ loft. "What have I gotten myself into?" she mutters, but she can already feel the worry seep away. She can do this.

Her eyes skip back to Leo. "So I was thinking of calling it _Maison Belle_. That means 'beautiful house.' What do you think? Too pretentious? Too girly?" She can imagine Leo's response. _You should call it the Intergalactic Bed and Breakfast, and each room can be the name of a Star Wars character. Like, the 'Boba Fett Room' would be cool. And okay, the 'Princess Leia Room' if you want to be girly. And we could make a Darth Vader room and paint it black and it would be _awesome!

Jayne smiles through the ache in her throat. God, how she misses him. This feeling of loss, it's constant. It grinds her down. It never ends. She wonders if it ever will, wonders if it even _should_. Sighing, she reaches for the recent photo of Leo and carries it toward the staircase. "I don't know about you, kiddo, but I'm off to bed. Your mom's exhausted. Moving sucks, believe you me." She knows Leo can't hear her, but she doesn't care. Talking to his photo makes her feel better. It's one of the few things that does. Along with Jerry, of course. She grins, suddenly giddy. Just _wait_ until he sees this place. Maybe she can bribe him into helping her unpack. Free pizza and a deck of Magic cards used to go a long way back in the day.

She's thinking of the time Jerry showed up at her dorm with a sleeping bag and a six-pack when she realizes someone's standing at the top of the stairs. Her thoughts of Jerry freeze, then shatter. She's not alone. Jayne blinks, looks again. Someone is there, right _there_. Her mouth is dry, her heart hammers. Her fingers are suddenly slick with sweat. The frame slips, but she catches it, holds it against her chest like a shield. Leo gives her strength.

The top of the staircase is pooled in shadow, but Jayne can tell from the height and dress that the intruder is a woman. She's wearing some kind of old-fashioned get-up, a long skirt and a white lacey blouse with about five hundred buttons marching up the front. Jayne can't get a good look at the face, but it doesn't matter. She turns on her heel and sprints for the cordless phone that's sitting on the table beside a box marked _paperbacks_.

"I'm calling the police," she declares with all the volume and authority she can muster. Jayne snatches the phone and turns back to the stairs.

There's no one there.

Jayne stares, heart still drumming. She sets Leo's photo on top of the box of books with trembling fingers. What the hell? Did she just imagine it? No. Someone was there. Someone was _in her house._

She presses the talk button, but there's no dial tone. Jayne stares down at the phone, betrayed. She presses it again. Nothing. This is bullshit, because she knows the line works, she's already called Jerry twice. So what–

The figure's standing in front of her. _Right in front of her._ Jayne drops the handset, too startled to move, to make a sound. The phone clatters to the hardwood floor, the plastic casing cracking and the battery bouncing out, a red wire connecting it to the handset like an umbilical cord. The battery is a small, black cylinder; it reminds her of a 35mm film canister, the kind no one uses anymore because everyone's got a digital camera. She stares at the battery because if she looks up she'll see–

She's not going to look. There's nothing to see anyway. Whatever's there (_nothing's there_) isn't real. She's dreaming. She's probably sprawled in front of the sofa, surrounded by half-empty boxes. She just needs to wake up. _See?_ she scolds herself, _This is what happens when you read too much Stephen King. This is what happens when you buy a huge-ass old house that looks like Poe scribbled _Fall of the House of Usher_ from the attic. This is what happens when–_

There's a hand around her throat and her feet are off the ground, and she kicks, she _kicks_, desperate to reach the floor, to connect to something, anything, _oh God, oh Jesus_, she's going to die. And now she _has_ to look, she can't _not_ look, because the hand (_cold, so cold_) around her throat is connected to an arm (_bones beneath the fabric_), and Jayne beats at the arm, pulls at the fingers, but they're steel, unyielding. The face looms before her bulging eyes and she wants to scream, but there's no air. She thinks _Jerry, help me, Jerry_, and the face before her isn't even a face, not really, it's a shadow, it's darkness, it's every nightmare she's ever had or will have. The thing flickers, words form from the dark space above the lace collar, below the shining blond hair.

_--this is my house this is my house this is my house my beautiful house–_

Jayne's foot catches the edge of the table and Leo's picture falls. The glass cracks. Leo smiles up at her, oblivious.

The shadowy face grows larger, the darkness pulls at her, whispering, soothing, and her last conscious thought is _I'm coming, Leo_.

ooooo

It's Friday. Sam knows this because he's already had the TV on, muted, and checked. He's been awake for two hours, immersed in research. The sun pokes pale fingers through the blinds and Sam reads, occasionally scrawling notes onto a legal pad.

Dean's still asleep, hasn't popped out of bed with a genial _rise and shine_ or _up and at 'em_ yet. Dean's been in a good mood ever since he finally (_finally_) admitted he didn't want to die. Sam's known it all along of course, he's always seen behind Dean's carefully constructed mask. But now that Dean's said _ the thing is, I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Hell_, Sam's kicked the research into high gear.

And it's Friday. Not Tuesday. It hasn't been _that_ Tuesday for nine days now. But the fear, the desperation, the failure, they're still with him, constantly whispering in his ear. Sam's chest doesn't bear a scar from a bullet wound, but the scars the Trickster left him with run deeper and hurt more. When he's not reading up on neopagan worship rituals, or paging through _The Prose Edda_ looking for information on the Trickster, he's counting down the days (_too few_) he has left with Dean. His head hurts constantly. It feels like his stomach and chest are full of hot ash. He shifts in the chair, hoping to alleviate the constant burning in his gut. It doesn't work.

The Trickster told him he couldn't save Dean. Sam doesn't (_won't_) accept that. But if he can find a way to summon the Trickster, to talk (_beg, bargain, plead_) to him, maybe he won't have to save Dean himself.

It's Friday, but every day is Tuesday now.

ooooo

Dean's humming _Damage, Inc._ under his breath when he opens the door. He nudges it shut with his foot, precariously balancing multiple bags of fast food and two cans of Diet Coke. "Dude. A little help, here."

Sam glances up from the notes he's scribbling and frowns in confusion, as if Dean just juggled an armful of cats into the room instead of lunch. Then he shakes his head like a mosquito's in his ear and jumps to his feet. He grabs most of the bags, shoves a few books out of the way, and deposits the food on the table. He stares at one of the bags, eyebrows furrowed, then crosses his arms, clearly pissed. "Dean. I said no Taco Bell."

Dean huffs in annoyance. "What's the big deal? It's not like you have to eat it."

Sam promptly sweeps the offending bag into the garbage. "You're right. And now, neither do you."

Dean stares, open-mouthed. Well, shit. There went five bucks. Not to mention those awesome little cinnamon thingies. "Aw, come _on_. Not cool, Sam."

Sam shakes his head in apparent disgust at Dean's culinary choices and returns to his books, bitchface still firmly in place.

Dean's considering digging the bag out of the trash and throwing it at Sam's head when he twigs to why Sam's acting like a grade A jackass. He sighs and leans against the credenza. "Is this about the Tuesday thing again?" He snorts derisively. "What? I died from tacos?" _As if._

Sam doesn't look up, but his lips compress. He flips a page noisily.

Dean lifts an eyebrow. Huh. "Dude. _Seriously_?"

Sam slams the books shut. "Yes, Dean. _Seriously_. You died from food poisoning." He runs one finger along the book's spine, his face suddenly haggard. "And you got hit by a car. _And_ you were shot." He reaches for a haphazard pile of books and begins stacking them carefully, arranging two neat piles, lining them up on each side of his laptop. "_Twice._ And I– " Sam cuts off abruptly. He takes a deep breath, blows it out his nose. He pushes back from the desk and stalks over to his bed, smoothes the sheet, pulls up the faded comforter, his back to Dean all the while. "Just…never mind."

Dean pulls a hamburger from another bag and takes a bite. He tries to pretend it's a taco, but the pickles and extra ketchup make it hard. "Sam," he says softly. "I'm okay." He points to the burger. "Look, see? No taco. I'm fine."

Sam whirls on him then, and the look on his face effectively extinguishes Dean's appetite. "Yeah. Okay." He's breathing hard, shoulders heaving. The unspoken _for now_ hangs heavy in the air, and that's when Dean finally realizes that even if he's fine, Sam isn't. And that makes him feel like shit.

It's obvious Sam's been upset about the deal ever since he (_came back_) figured out what Dean did. And Dean understands, he does. But doing research up the ass and having secret phone calls with Bobby is a far cry from the full-on freak-out mode Sam's spent the last week in. For the first time, Dean takes in just how many books are piled on the table. It looks like Sam just emptied out _Amazon_. Or robbed a library. And it's not just the increased research, or lack of sleep. There's a new desperation, an edge to Sam's voice that hasn't been there since right after Jess died. Dean doesn't know exactly what the Trickster did to Sam, but whatever it was, Sam's not (_getting_) over it.

Dean grabs the Burger King bag along with his rapidly cooling burger. "What are you, the maid? Knock it off and eat something. Jeez." He plops onto Sam's perfectly neat bed and wiggles his ass to mess up the covers. He tosses one of the pillows onto the floor. Sam stares at it, nostrils flaring, like Dean just threw down a gauntlet. "No way. If you touch that I will kick your ass. Now sit down for two seconds and eat your shitty sandwich." He thrusts the bag at Sam.

Sam purses his lips. "Fine." The 'fine' sounds exactly like _fuck you_, but Sam sits. He stares morosely into the bag before pulling out a container of onion rings. He regards them with an expression of extreme indifference.

Dean filches one and stuffs it in his mouth, hoping Sam will get the idea and follow suit. "I was thinking," Dean says, still chewing, "maybe we should go after the Trickster. We don't know where Bela is yet and it's not like we have another job lined up."

Sam's eyes shift from the onion rings to the book-laden table. "We've got plenty to do."

"Yeah, I get that you're working on..." Dean searches for a delicate way to put it, "stuff. But it just feels weird that we let the Trickster off scot-free back there."

Sam dumps the onion rings back into the bag and wipes his hands on his jeans. "He disappeared, Dean." His mouth curves into a humorless half smile. "It's hard to stake thin air."

"Yeah, but all we have to do is look for some kind trail. Look for a bunch of pompous assholes who've died or gone missing and connect the dots." Dean digs in the bag for an onion ring. "It shouldn't be all that hard. Easier than finding Bela, anyway."

"No." Sam stands, shoulders rigid. "Leave it alone."

Dean forgets about the onion rings. "What do you mean, 'leave it alone?'" It makes no sense. The bastard pretty much tortured Sam with a trip to the Twilight Zone. Okay, a few dozen Tuesdays in a row doesn't sound _that_ bad, but watching Dean die every day couldn't have been a picnic. Especially if it was boring shit like death by taco. That's just embarrassing. And obviously, Sam's exaggerating, because it couldn't have been a hundred Tuesdays -- that's just...crazy. Okay, the Groundhog Tuesday thing is _already_ crazy, so make that crazy_-er_. Because if it had really been that long, Sam would be doing the thorazine shuffle by now, not research. If _he_ had been forced to watch Sam die a hundred times via tacos--or anything else—there's no fucking way he'd have put up with it. Once was more than enough. He'd be plenty happy to perforate the slippery bastard.

"I mean, I'm not going after him." Sam says slowly, enunciating each word. He gives Dean a calculating look. "Neither are you."

Dean crumples the Burger King bag. "_Fine_," he fuck-you's back at Sam. He lobs the bag at the garbage can and earns two points. "Just tell me why."

Dean's completely unprepared for Sam's reaction. Sam shoves a stack of books off the table and they crash to the floor in a heap. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated and he smashes his fist against the table. Dean's careful not to flinch. "Because he brought you back," Sam growls, and leans against the table, palms flat, fingers splayed.

The room is still for what feels like forever, but it can't be more then ten seconds. "From where?" Dean asks.

But Sam won't tell him, he just picks up the books and restacks them like he's building a wall. Finally, Sam slumps into the chair and focuses on the wall above Dean's head. Dean looks over his shoulder to see an ancient pink clock fastened to the paneling.

"Don't you get it?" Sam asks, his voice flat. "I need you around."

Dean shakes his head. "Dude, you don't need me. You got along fine without me at Stanford," he reminds Sam, "you can do it again."

Sam shakes his head, and his face goes blank. "I'm not the person I was at Stanford, Dean. Not anymore. That person is long gone. I feel like I'm barely even here, Dean. I'm just _barely_ holding it together." Sam keeps his eyes on the clock. "I don't think I can make it without you around." He shrugs helplessly. "I don't even think I _want_ to." Sam drops his head into his hands, pulls at his too-long hair. "You said I was a selfish bastard once, remember that?"

Dean tries to speak but his tongue feels like cement. That creepy monotone voice thing Sam's doing is starting to freak him out. He doesn't want to hear this. This isn't what he wants for Sam. Sam's supposed to be happy. Sam's supposed to be okay. He brought Sam back so he'd be _okay_. He tries again, and this time his tongue works. "I remember." How long ago was that? Two years? Forever?

"But you're the selfish bastard, Dean. _You_ are. You brought me back just so I could watch you die." Sam rocks back and forth, his body rigid, right foot tapping restlessly against the floor. "That's not fair. That's not _fair_." Sam lifts his head, and his eyes are haunted and bloodshot. "How could you do this to me after what happened with Dad?"

Now it's Dean's turn to look away. He can't meet Sam's desperate gaze. Jesus H. Christ on a crutch. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't think about what would happen when he made the deal. He didn't _care_ what would happen when he made the deal. Not really. He just wanted Sam. Simple as that. "I." Dean clears his throat, rubs his chin. "I just wanted you back." He wasn't thinking about Dad, he wasn't thinking about the guilt and despair he'd spent the last year slogging through, none of that mattered. Not compared with Sam. If he could go back in time knowing what he knows now, he'd do the same fucking thing. Is he a selfish bastard? Hell yes.

Sam hunches his shoulders and seems to fold in on himself. He doesn't look like a twenty-four year old man, he looks like a lost little boy. He looks the way he did when he found out the truth about Mom, about hunting. Maybe he never stopped looking that way, and Dean's just been too blind to see.

Sam swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, misery wound through every word. "And I don't want you to go."

Dean glances toward the books. "Maybe I won't have to. Maybe we'll find a way to keep me around. You know," he wiggles his eyebrows, grinning, "so I can annoy your ass for years to come."

Sam studies the floor. "Yeah," he says without conviction. "Maybe."

ooooo

Sam lies in the dark, listening to Dean breathe. He can't sleep, doesn't even try. Instead, he counts. He doesn't want to, but he can't stop himself. It's become a nightly ritual, a habit he can't (_won't_) break. One, shot with a rifle. Two, hit by a car. Three, crushed. Four, food poisoning. Five, cracked skull. Six, electrocution. Seven, shot with an arrow. Seven, broken neck. It's like a sick nursery rhyme, something out of _Ten Little Indians_. Eight, suffocation. Nine, decapitation. Ten, asphyxiation. Eleven, mauled. Twelve, stabbed. Thirteen, hit by a bus. Fourteen, aneurysm.

The list goes on and on, all the way up to one hundred and three (_gunshot_). He remembers them all, feels each death whether he wants to or not. He can't find a way to scrub his brain free of those endless Tuesdays, or the cold, empty hell that followed. Instead, he lies in bed and fights sleep, because sleep brings nightmares. Nightmares that make him relive Dean's death again and again, remind him how helpless (_useless_) he is. At least when he's awake, he knows Dean's alive (_for now_). He doesn't have that luxury when he's dreaming.

Sam rolls over and watches his brother sleep. He feels the familiar sting of tears behind his eyes, but he blinks them away. He presses a hand to his belly; the pain feels like a living thing. He imagines a black tumor of fear in his gut, patiently gnawing a hole through his stomach lining. Eventually, that fear will leak through him, spread like a cancer. Eventually, it will suffocate him from the inside out.

He tries to think of something other than Dean. Anything. He concentrates on the sound of the ice machine outside, the rumble of the heater. Dean shifts and mumbles in his sleep. Jess used to talk in her sleep. Sam closes his eyes and tries to remember the sound of her voice, the sound of her laugh. He can't. He feels like some vital part of him is missing, and the pain in his gut flares. He shoves a pillow against his stomach, tries to tame the hurt, drive it away. It holds on, stubborn.

His mind inexorably returns to Dean's fate, the way a tongue searches out a loose tooth. He flips through the same worn options, examines them from every angle, discards them, and repeats the process. What has he missed, what hasn't he tried? He can contact Ruby. No. She's unpredictable, and a liar. Summon another crossroads demon? No. He doesn't even have the Colt to bargain (_kill_) with. Locate a spell, some misplaced ritual to protect Dean? Doubtful. Bobby hasn't found anything. Sam's still looking, always looking, but it feels like he's just treading water. A relic? Maybe. But from where? Again, Bobby's got nothing, and there's only so much time. From Bela? She's a lying bitch. He trusts Ruby more than Bela and he'd sooner kill her than ask for her help. Still, it'd be nice to get the Colt back. But...maybe. If he can't find the Trickster. Because that's what (_who_) he really wants. To find that fucking Trickster and make him talk (_help_). Yes.

Sam scrubs his face with the heels of his palms. He stares up at the ceiling. He doesn't see Jess there anymore. He hasn't for months, maybe a year. Now he just sees time slipping away. He can see it in the way the shadows slide across the wall. He can feel it, immutable and immune to his pleading or prayers.

It's at times like this, when he's been awake for hours and the darkness is thick with regret and heavy as guilt, that he thinks that somewhere, his real self is still in Kansas. He's in his nursery, in the old house, and he's safe. His whole life is one long dream manipulated by the Trickster. Mom's alive, Dad's happy, and Dean's gonna outlive everyone. Sam's gonna be a lawyer and he'll marry Jess and his biggest worry will be helping Dean get rid of a glove compartment's worth of parking tickets.

If the Trickster can make time loops and kill Dean, can't he _make_ a life as well as take one? So Sam wonders _how much longer, how much_ longer, and wishes with everything that's left of his heart for a fresh start. He wants to open his eyes and see his mother's smiling face and know he's free, finally _free_, and there's no such thing as ghosts or demons or destiny or lost souls or fathers who tell their sons, _by the way, you might have to kill your brother. _

Instead, when Sam opens his eyes, it's morning and Dean's grinning at him like he just won the lottery. He's snapping his fingers to some private rhythm, like he doesn't give a shit he's a day closer to dying, and he says _get up lazy-ass_, and he's got toothpaste on his chin.

ooooo

Sam doesn't want to go out for breakfast. Okay, fine. No problem. Dean can just pick up a couple of Egg McMuffins or whatever and a couple of black coffees. From the look of Sam, he's gonna need five cups just to get through the next hour. The kid looks wrecked. Dean was sure Sam would feel better after last night's touchy feely emo shit (okay, fine, _truth-telling_). If that lame old saying about truth setting you free means anything at all, Sam should be bounding around the room, not bricking himself behind a wall of books.

Dean, on the other hand, slept like a baby. He doesn't feel half bad, all things considered. He stretches in front of the bathroom mirror, inspects his teeth, combs his hair. He can see himself in the mirror, but his eyes are on Sam. Sam looks like a robot, some kind of terminator typing so fast on his laptop, Dean half expects to see smoke rise from the keys. His gaze slides to Sam's neatly made bed. And that's just...weird. What is _up_ with that? Sam's never been overly–okay, that's a lie. Sam's always been sort of a (_annoying_) neatnick, bitching about socks in the sink and personal boundaries and boring shit like that. But this is a little over the top, even for Sam. Dean can practically see the invisible line down the middle of the room.

Dean's side of the room actually looks lived in. The bed is rumpled, his duffel's open on the floor, a knife handle protrudes from beneath the pillow. Empty Coke can beside the bed. Socks on the floor, along with yesterday's newspaper. Nothing wrong with that. Sam's side, on the other hand, looks like the cleaning police made a surprise midnight inspection. Dean's pretty sure you can bounce a quarter off the bed. Sam's duffel isn't even in sight and the books he's not studying are stacked up like a skyline. There aren't any socks, cans, or candy wrappers in view. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think he was staying in the room by himself.

Dean's not sure if he should worry or not. It's not like Sam's in the bathroom scrubbing his hands ten hours a day. Being organized is supposed to be a good thing. He's never seen one of those lame PSAs about Sudden Onset Tidy Syndrome, after all. Dean's stomach growls and that brings him back to what really matters: breakfast. He wanders over to the table and raps Sam on the head. "How about coming up for air? I'm gonna go pick up breakfast."

Sam looks at him like he just spoke a foreign language, and not one of the billion or so that Sam understands. "What?"

"Break. Fast." Dean mimes lifting a fork to his mouth and pretends to chew. He lifts an invisible cup of coffee to his mouth and makes what he feels are especially convincing lip-smacking noises. "It's even better when the food's real, trust me." He shrugs into his coat, jingling the car keys. "So what'll it be? Cuppa joe? Hashbrowns? Breakfast burrito?" Dean's feeling generous. "Hell, I'll even get you a bagel."

Sam picks up a green marker and highlights something in one of the books, tongue tucked between his teeth, all concentration. "No thanks. I'm not hungry."

"No way, José . You're gonna eat something and you're gonna like it. Okay, fine, pretend to like it. So name your poi–" Dean recalls the taco debacle from the day before and switches gears. "–uh, what you want. I mean, have you seen your reflection lately? You make that zombie chick Angela look fucking radiant. At the very least you need about a vat of coffee."

"Fine," Sam nods, distracted. "Coffee."

Dean jingles the car keys louder. "_And_?"

Sam rubs the back of his neck, blows air out of his cheeks. "Um. I don't know. A large coffee and a bagel. That sounds good." He smiles, and Dean can tell it's forced, but it means something that he's trying, right? It's only forced because he didn't get a decent night's sleep.

Dean's got his hand on the doorknob when his cell phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, flips it open, fully expecting to hear Bobby's voice. "Yeah?"

ooooo

Sam's only half listening when Dean answers the call. He's reading about Ásatrú blot rituals, sacrificial offerings to the Norse deities: the Vanir, Æsir, and Jötnar. He's not interested in scarecrows or apple orchards or crops. He only cares peripherally about the endless stories of Odin, Thor, Frigg and Skadi. There's only one entity he's interesting in finding: Loki.

"Was there another plane crash?" Dean demands into the phone, and the thinly veiled fear in his brother's voice pulls Sam out of the book.

"Oh. Okay. Sure." Dean darts a look at Sam and eases himself onto the edge of the bed. "You're kidding. Shit." A pause. "Is she okay?" Dean glances at his watch. "No problem. Yeah. We can be there by this afternoon, let me get the address. One sec." Dean motions to Sam for a piece of paper but Sam slides the notebook out of reach, shakes his head.

Dean's face scrunches into a _what the fuck_ look. He glares at Sam and holds his hand out. _Give me the notebook._

Sam sets his jaw. _No._ He gestures to the books. _We've got our own work to do._.

Dean shoots Sam a death glare but it has no effect. "Uh, sorry Jerry. Can you repeat that?" He pulls a pen from his coat pocket and scribbles on the palm of his hand. "Okay. Got it. See you later." Dean flips the phone shut and stares at Sam. "What's your problem?"

"We've got more than enough to do right here," Sam says. "We don't have time to hunt, Dean." Dean's expression turns thunderous, and Sam works hard to eject the anger (_fear_) from his voice. "We can hunt _after_ I find a way to save you. We can hunt for the rest of our lives. I don't care. I just…" Sam's gaze drifts to the cover of a book on Norse mythology, but he's not really seeing it. "We don't have much time, Dean." Sam sighs and the anger is all gone now, replaced with the familiar claustrophobic desperation. And pain. He grits his teeth against the gnawing ache in his stomach.

Dean pulls the other chair around to face Sam and sits. He leans forward, forearms on his knees. He opens his mouth, hesitates, pushes his lips out, scratches his neck. "Okay. I get that you're worried. You can hear the clock ticking down on me and that freaks you out." Dean snorts. "It freaks _me_ out. But people need our help." Dean inches forward, eyes on Sam. His voice is soft, almost gentle. "How many people are you willing to let die just to save me?"

Sam's hands start to tremble, so he clasps them tightly in his lap. He can't meet Dean's eyes. There's no judgment there, but Sam can't look. "I don't know what you mean." It's a lie and they both know it, but Sam can't stop the words from coming.

"Yeah, I think you do. I know you killed that girl with a crossroads demon inside her." Dean swallows, rubs his jaw. "And you killed Casey and who knows how many others." Sam opens his mouth, face red, but Dean holds up a hand. "And I…I get it. I've killed my share of demons, Sam, including the people they were…wearing. I get you think you need to be more like me, be some kind of hardass. But you'll never be like me. I mean, for one thing, , it's just not in you to be this handsome." Dean tries to grin and nearly succeeds. Sam huffs angrily and looks away, fists curled. The remains of Dean's smile hit the floor. "I'm kidding," he says meekly, struggling for the right words. "But I'm a hardass so you don't _have_ to be, Sam. You're the one who asks questions first…and if you don't, there's no…" Dean gestures impatiently, "there's no balance or whatever. We're a team, and we both got our part. My part is killing evil sons of bitches and being awesome, and yours is lots of reading, picking locks, and being freakishly tall." Sam glares and Dean chuckles. "Okay, we both kill the evil sons of bitches. But maybe we're getting—just a little, is all I'm saying--overzealous. I meant what I said back in that cabin with you and Dad, Sam. It scares me what I'd be willing to do to save you. And I'm starting to understand you'd do pretty much anything too."

"I don't think I'd make a deal with a _demon_. That was just plain stupid and dangerous, not to mention asinine and—"

"I get it," Dean interrupts blandly. He sits up, claps his hands on his thighs. "But I'm not gonna sit here and twiddle my thumbs when people need our help, Sam. That's not me. And I know damn well it isn't you, either."

Sam gathers his books together, defeated. He can't argue with that. And truth be told, he doesn't even want to. Dean's right. It's one of the things he loves most about Dean, makes him proud to be his brother. "Fine." He says the word quietly, not a fuck you this time, but a _you win_.

"Especially," Dean adds, "when those people are Jerry Panowski."

Sam's eyebrows pop up. "_Jerry_? Is he okay?" He recalls Dean's question about a plane crash. Jerry's a good guy. Shit. Now he feels like an even bigger asshole. "Was there--"

Dean heads him off. "Nah. His sister needs help. Said she was nearly killed last night."

Sam grabs his duffel, throws in his toothbrush and shampoo. "By what?"

Dean grins. "Some kind of spirit."

Sam's hand hovers over the duffle. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. It's just nice to get back to something easy, you know? Take a break from demons and witches and time loops. I mean, how hard can it be to get rid of a ghost?"

ooooo

The house is huge. Three stories of fancy-ass molding, towering eaves and brick chimneys across from a park. Pale blue flowers bloom around a giant porch. The house is painted a shade of green that probably has a stupid name like "sea foam" or "mermaid", with burgundy and light yellow trim. The fence bordering the yard and oversized driveway is also burgundy, but the paint is peeling, the fence splintered and broken in half a dozen paces. Some kind of flowering tree blooms in the front yard, spilling drifts of pink snow across the lawn. Which looks like it's a bitch to mow.

"Huh," Dean says, staring. "Doesn't exactly look like it's out of the Addams Family."

Sam shrugs noncommittally, runs a hand through his hair. Jerry's waiting for them and he waves. Dean nudges Sam. "Is it just me or is he getting shorter?"

Sam aims a silent _shut up, it's just you_ at his brother and bounds up the front porch, hand extended. "Hi Jerry. It's good to see you."

Jerry nods, smiling warmly. "You too." The smile falters, and up close Dean can see he's oozing anxiety. "Just wish it was under better circumstances. I really appreciate you boys coming out here. I didn't know what else to do."

Large bay windows flank the ornately-carved front door. The center of the door is a long panel of stained glass that Frank Lloyd Wright would envy. "Anything else happen since we talked?" Dean asks. He takes a step back and squints up at the widow's peak. "What's up there?"

"It's an attic. Well, it used to be. Jayne wants to turn it into a loft." Jerry leans forward to shake Dean's hand as well.

Sam plugs his hands into his coat pockets. "How's your sister doing?"

Jerry tilts his head toward the door. "She's pretty freaked out. Come on, she's inside."

The front door opens into a large foyer. There's large antique-looking desk along one wall. The drawers sit beside it, filled with a hodge-podge of pens, pencils and office paraphernalia. A picture hangs above the desk, a woman standing in a field of flowers. Upon closer inspection, Dean sees the picture is a collage, made from bits of paper. The woman wears wings made from strips of newspaper and the flowers aren't flowers at all--they're hands. Dean frowns. Weird.

Jerry leads them through French doors--badly in need of cleaning-- into a spacious sitting area. The walls in the foyer are painted a deep blue, and the ones in the sitting room are burgundy. The dark colors work surprisingly well inside the house. Jerry leads them through the French doors and into the sitting room.

Jayne sits on a claw-footed couch, a fancy oak coffee table in front of her. It's huge and looks like another antique. Obviously, the woman has money from somewhere to buy a house this size and furnish it with decent stuff like this. A framed collage of what looks like torn pieces of old-timey advertisements hangs above a small roll-top desk. A fireplace sits against the far wall, a fire crackling merrily behind an ornate screen. A collection of framed photographs line the mantle, most of them of a smiling boy's face. One of the frames is chipped and missing the glass.

Jayne sits in the middle of the couch, and the first thing Dean notices is she's even shorter than Jerry. She can't be more than five three, and she looks lost within the cushions of the sofa. She's got a round face and a mass of blond hair pulled into an unkempt pony-tail. She's wearing burgundy-framed glasses, and Dean's beginning to wonder if the woman realizes other colors exist.

When they enter the room, Jayne's eyes go immediately to Jerry. She's clutching a flowery pillow, and her eyes are red and puffy. Jerry sits next to her and puts an arm around her. "These are the guys I told you about," he tells her.

Jayne stares up at Sam and he promptly seats himself in one of the large chairs. "Hi, Mrs. Robert. I'm Sam," he nods to where Dean's standing, examining a glass bowl filled with M&Ms. "And that's my brother Dean."

The woman nods. "Call me Jayne." One hand goes to her throat, hovers near the collar of her sweater. "I have to tell you I never...I never believed in this kind of thing. When Jerry said he had a poltergeist a few years ago I thought," her face flushes in embarrassment and her voice breaks, "I thought it was some kind of...of hoax. Something his wife was doing to get attention, to get the kids during the divorce."

Jerry gives her a fond smile. "Bet you feel pretty stupid now, huh?"

Jayne manages a watery chuckle and reaches beneath her glasses to wipe her eyes.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Sam asks, and despite the arm twisting it took to get him here, Dean notices he's got his sincere face on.

Dean pops a green M&M into his mouth and sits in the chair opposite Sam.

Jayne darts a look at Jerry and he gives her a slight nod. "Go ahead."

Jayne swallows and clasps her hands in her lap. "I just moved in yesterday. I was unpacking and…and I saw…" Jayne stumbles, at a loss for words. "I don't even know what I saw. It was like…an apparition." Jayne laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. "Oh forget it. It looked like a ghost. Like something out of a horror movie. It grabbed me and lifted me right off the ground." Jerry squeezes her hand. "I thought I was going to die." Jayne pulls at the neck of her sweater to reveal an angry necklace of mottled bruises. "The last thing I remember," Jayne sniffs and wipes her eyes again, "is looking at its—her—face."

"It was a female ghost?" Sam asks.

"Yeah. She was dressed like…oh, I don't know. Old fashioned. Long skirt and white blouse. She had blond hair pulled up into a bun."

Dean reaches for a handful of candy. "What did she look like?" Sam shoots him a look and Dean lifts an eyebrow. _What?_

Jayne's mouth twists into a miserable frown. "I don't know. It was like…looking into darkness, into _nothing._" She shivers and wraps her arms around herself. "I keep thinking I imagined it all, you know?"

Dean eyes the angry bruises on her neck. It happened, all right. He gives Jerry an expectant look. "And you found Jayne this morning?"

Jerry nods. "I was coming by to help her unpack, run errands, figure out some last minute stuff for the bed and breakfast."

Dean and Sam exchange a brief glance. "Bed and breakfast?"

"Maison Belle," Jayne clarifies. "Beautiful house. I spent almost all of my savings on this house. I took out a business loan. This house isn't just where I live, it's supposed to be my future. I can't afford to have everything fall apart now." She looks to Jerry, eyes wide. "The contractor is coming next week and I…I don't know what to do." She runs her hands through her hair. "I can't live here like this."

"They'll fix it," Jerry soothes with a pointed look at Sam and Dean. "They'll figure it out."

"I'm a little surprised you wanted to meet here, all things considered," Dean says.

Jerry pulls a plastic bag out from beneath the sofa, taps it with one foot. "I brought salt."

Dean stares, mouth open.

"I remember a few, uh, tools you and your dad used," Jerry explains. "I've kept a bag of salt in the trunk of my car ever since. And in the basement. And the kitchen. And the bedroom closet." He clears his throat, self-conscious. "You get the idea."

Dean's impressed. "Jerry, that is _awesome_." He beams a megawatt grin at Sam. "Man, I wish more people were like him, I really do."

"Yeah, that's great," Sam says in a tone of voice as plastic as Pamela Anderson's tits, and pushes himself out of the chair. "Okay, it's time you two left and let us get to work." He puts his sincere face back on and smiles. "Do you have someplace else you can stay? Someplace safe."

Jerry nods. "We're heading over to the Days Inn over on Franklin." He hands Sam a scrap of paper. "Here's the number."

Sam takes it, glances at the number and slips it into his shirt pocket. "Okay. Thanks. We'll keep you posted."

Jerry and Jayne exchange an uncertain glance. "You mean…that's it?" the woman asks. "You don't need anything else?"

Dean opens his mouth to reply but Sam talks right over him. "I don't think so," he says, and stands, subtly directing Panowski and his sister to leave.

"You guys are ready to start, um—" Jerry flushes, "—ghost busting?"

Sam nods, herding them toward the French doors. "No time like the present, right?"

ooooo

"So what's the plan?" Dean demands. Sam's already at the car and Dean figures he wants to head to City Hall or maybe the library to research the house. But Sam just opens the trunk and pulls out the EMF meter and a duffel of weapons and heads back to the porch. Dean trails after him, annoyed at Sam's pace and _more_ annoyed Sam is still trying to master Dean's _shoot first_ attitude instead of sticking with his old standby of _ask questions_.

Sam shrugs. "The sooner we get this done, the faster we can get out of here."

Dean grimaces at Sam's back. "Okaaaay." He wants to say more, but he's not sure what, and Sam's already inside anyway.

Jerry waves to him from his truck and mimics putting a phone to his ear. "Call me when you know something, okay?"

Jayne pokes her head out the passenger window, eyes fearful. "Be careful."

"Will do," Dean calls back. "On both counts."

Dean watches Jerry back out of the driveway and heads after Sam. The foyer is empty, but the duffel is on the bottom step of the staircase, open. Dean pulls out a shotgun and checks to make sure it's loaded with salt cartridges. It is. Good. "Sam?"

"Up here." Sam's voice comes from the second floor, and Dean can already hear the buzz of the meter. Okay then. Maybe this won't take that long. Dean turns back to the duffel, intent on finding the gris-gris bags.

Sam's voice sounds again. "I've already got the bags. Come on."

Dean shakes his head. Jesus, how does he _do_ that shit? "Hold your horses, Haley Joel," Dean mutters, and heads up the staircase. Sam's standing in a long hallway, fiddling with the dials on the meter. Old fashioned wallpaper with twirly vines and pink flowers accents the walls. Four rooms branch off from the corridor, and a large stained glass window sits above the landing, lighting another staircase that leads to the third floor.

The EMF meter buzzes louder. "You feel that?" Sam asks.

Dean nods. He sure does. The air is growing cooler. "We already know something's here. Why don't we split up and use the gris-gris bags to cleanse the house?"

Sam switches the meter off and stuffs it into his coat pocket. He shifts his shotgun into both hands. "We're not splitting up."

"Says the guy who left me in the dust."

"We should check the attic and basement first. Just to make sure there aren't any surprises hanging around."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Because the realtor wouldn't have noticed a moldy old corpse lying around? I'm thinking Jayne would have got a pretty sweet deal on this place if Mr. or Mrs. Bones was sitting around."

"Dean," Sam says, going into put-upon mode. "There might be hidden rooms or trap doors in a house this old. We should at least make a token effort, all right?"

Dean shrugs, walking beside Sam. "Whatever, dude. You're the one who wants to high-tail it back to your books."

"It's not like I'm reading for _fun_," Sam says quietly. "I'm trying to help you." His expression wavers somewhere between anger, hurt, and betrayal.

Dean wishes he hadn't say anything and pretends to study the ugly-ass wallpaper pattern. "I know. And I'm thankful, Sam. Believe me." He can feel Sam's eyes on the side of his head. "I _am_," Dean huffs.

"Let's just go," Sam says, and Dean's more than happy to oblige.

They move down the hall, methodically checking the first two rooms. They're both bedrooms. Neither is furnished. None of the closet doors move, the only sound is their footsteps, but the temperature drops even lower. The late afternoon light shines weakly through the colored glass, frost creeping up the edge of one pane. Dean shivers. "How come ghosts never make it warm? Why's it always have to be cold?" he complains, and purses his lips. He glances into the third bedroom. Still nothing. Sam opens a closet. Even more nothing. They return to the corridor. "So do you think this ghost haunted the previous owners or just–" Dean trails off, his attention drawn to the wall.

"Or just what?" Sam prompts.

"_Sam_."

Sam glances back at Dean, concerned. "You okay?"

Dean jerks his head toward the wall. "You see that?"

Words are appearing all along the right-hand wall. Black letters bloom across the wallpaper like water stains, the same two words again and again: _GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT_ in spidery block print.

ooooo

Sam blinks. The words unfold across the flowered paper like warped origami. They spread up to the ceiling and down to the faded carpet, as if the letters are living things. _Get out of my house, get out of my beautiful house, get _out. Black ink curls across the carpet in long tendrils, dark fingers reach toward his shoe. Sam takes a step backward and lifts the shotgun warily. "Dean?"

Dean's still watching the wall. "So much for the welcome wagon."

That's when Sam sees it: a figure materializing below the multicolored glass window, with blond hair and in Victorian dress. And there's nothing but gaping darkness where the face should be.

ooooo

_Get out._

Dean nearly jumps. He swings around, finger on the trigger, to find a boy standing behind him. Dean's mouth is dry, his palms are not. "Who the hell are you?" He thinks _it's the ghost_, but it doesn't feel right. This isn't some faceless woman, this is just a kid.

The boy nods toward the stairs, a _what are you, stupid?_ expression on his face. The boy motions at Dean, his message clear: _Get out of here!_

ooooo

"Dean, come on," Sam puts a hand on the back of Dean's jacket and herds him toward the stairs. Sam pauses long enough to take a shot at the misty figure and it evaporates in a blur of smoke and salt.

"What are you doing?" Dean demands, confused. "The kid's behind us." Dean looks around, eyebrows in a V. Shit, he's gone.

"What kid?" Sam wants to know, eyes darting around the hallway.

"The kid that was standing right _there_," Dean snaps.

Sam risks a quick glance at Dean. "I didn't see a kid. Just the woman."

Now Dean's eyebrows jerk upwards. What the fuck is going on? "What woman?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "The _ghost_."

The words on the walls are fading now, twisting and withering like dried leaves and they float to the floor like ash.

Dean scowls, bending down to touch the ash. "What the hell?" He stands, wipes his hand on his jeans. "It just melted! Like ice." He scratches his chin. "I'm starting to think a little research might not have been such a bad idea."

Sam doesn't reply because the ghost is back. She flickers into focus and reaches a hand toward Sam.

_you did not heed my warning you will die you both will_

Sam's jaw clenches and he fires again. "Go to hell," he grits and she flickers like static. The smoke clears and she's gone.

"What the _fuck_ are you shooting at?" Dean yells. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _you?_" Sam counters. "Are you blind?" Sam doesn't understand what Dean's problem is, the ghost has shown up _twice_ already, and Dean's just standing there, babbling about a kid.

Dean advances toward the second staircase. "Dude, it's fine if you want to shoot first and ask questions later, but you might want to wait until there's something to shoot _at_."

Sam stares at him in astonishment. Like he's supposed to wait until the ghost is actually choking him? He's been there, done that more times than he cares to count. "She was right there," Sam says, pointing toward the ornate window. He's about to say more, but the sight of Dean's face squeezes the words back down his throat. He chokes on them.

Dean's face is colorless, like milk. Sam can see a cross-work of pale blue veins beneath his brother's skin like a roadmap. Dean looks at him and his eyes turn cloudy, like muddy water. The skin on his hands and neck begins to crack and pinkish fluid leaks down his shirt and onto the carpet.

Dean gags and falls back against the wall, head tapping a staccato rhythm, heels drumming against the floorboard. Sam surges forward and grabs Dean, presses a hand to his face, holds him upright with the other one. No. _No._ This isn't happening. Sam searches desperately for Dean's pulse, but all he can feel is his own desperate heartbeat throbbing in his fingertips. All he can hear is the harsh buzzing of blood in his ears. "Dean. _Dean._"

ooooo

Dean shoulders his shotgun and leans against the wall, trying to work out if they should go upstairs or get the hell out. He taps his head against the wall and blows out a weary sigh. His breath forms a tiny cloud in the chill air. Sam's acting weirder than normal and he's more than a little unsettled by the strange little boy. Can the ghost change its appearance? Why would it bother?

He's about to tell Sam to screw it, just go with the Missouri method when Sam leaps at him and sticks his giant Sasquatch hand all over Dean's face, then fumbles his fingers into Dean's neck. "What the _fuck_?" Dean yelps, and tries to shove Sam away. But Sam won't go. He's latched himself to Dean and he's muttering, face chalky, eyes rolling, and Dean's annoyance dries up fast when Sam croaks _Dean?_ He sounds like he's seven years old, and Dean decides if he hadn't already made a deal with a demon he'd gladly make one to ensure Sam never sounds like that again.

Dean grabs Sam's wrist and wrenches it away from his face. "Sam. Sammy." But Sam can't or won't hear him, because he's looking around wildly for someone else.

"I know it's you!" Sam shrieks. "Come out, you bastard. I don't need your lessons," Sam says, voice hitching. "Leave me the fuck alone and give me my brother!"

Dean grabs Sam's shoulders and shakes him. "Sam, I'm fine. I'm _fine_." Sam's looking at him, but he's not _seeing_ him. That's when Sam's face goes perfectly blank. Everything drains out of it until there's nothing but cold hard edges. It's a look Dean's never seen before, and it's a look that makes Dean feel nauseous, because Sam's gone.

oooo

Sam looks at Dean's corpse. He pushes the agony away, down into the darkness inside him, puts the fear on top of that. Dean's dead. Again. Dean is always dying. And that's when he realizes it's always _been_ Tuesday. It's always going to be Tuesday. Dean was attacked by that poltergeist when he was fourteen. Dean was bitten by the black dog when he was twenty. Dean was electrocuted when he was twenty-seven. He was tortured by the yellow-eyed demon and hit by the truck later that year and nearly died. Sam _saw_ his heart stop, saw the doctors work desperately to bring him back. And then his life started ticking away thanks to (_Sam_) the crossroads demon. Then came everything in Brewer. And now this. Sam lifts a hand to Dean's chest and holds it there, as if he can will Dean back to life.

That's when Dean (_is dead_) says _I'm fine_. Sam can feel the laughter rise like bile and he stuffs it down with his other emotions. No, Dean's not _fine_, he's dead. And the Trickster _still_ isn't done with him. Now he's going to put on a fucking _show_.

Sam licks his lips, tries to think, but he can't. He can feel the pain (_loss_) looming, and he feels broken, unable to function. He _is_ pain. He's made from it, he's going insane because of it. He has to get rid of it. He has to put it away. He needs to bury Dean (_is dead_) and find the Trickster. So he takes a step back and drives his fist right into the wall. Wallpaper tears, plaster breaks and hard wood meets his knuckles. It hurts like a bitch, and he's _glad_. This is his pain. He controls this, no one else. He pulls his hand back out and the head of a thin nail is embedded between his first and second knuckles. He can hear Dean's voice in his head _it's about time you finally got nailed, Sammy_ and the laughter bubbles harder, higher, and he grins.

Dean (_is dead_) reaches for him, grabs his shoulders with blackened fingers and speaks through blue-tinged lips. "I'm not hurt, Sam. This isn't real."

Sam stares. Dean is dead, but he's moving. Dean is dead, but he's talking. Dean reaches for Sam's injured hand and holds it carefully, inspects it and Sam lets him, because maybe this is what he gets. Maybe this is life's compromise. Maybe Dean dies, but he remains, like the glow after a flash photo. And maybe this isn't really Dean, maybe it's part of Dean or mostly Dean or a memory of Dean but Sam doesn't care, not at all, because any kind of Dean is better than none. Any part of Dean is better than being alone with himself. Maybe this is the Trickster's doing and maybe it's not, but whatever it is, as long as Dean (_is dead_) is talking to him, he'll take it.

ooooo

_Holy fuck_, Dean thinks and stares at Sam's hand. Blood flows freely from his knuckles and there's a fucking nail (_a nail!_) stuck in Sam's hand. He's starting to get an idea of what Sam was like all those Tuesdays and he's pretty much decided he's going to kill the Trickster himself no matter what Sam says. Then there's a pull on Dean's shirt and standing there—again—is the boy. He's got straw colored hair and nerdy glasses and he's trying to physically drag Dean down the stairs. "Get out of here," the kid says, face twisted in concentration.

"Who are you?" Dean demands.

"She's coming," is the kid's answer and that's all the incentive Dean needs. If this is the kind of mojo Lady McFaceless can do to Sam, he's more than ready to haul ass. He pulls Sam along and Sam comes, docile enough until they get down to the foyer. Then Sam starts laughing, great hysterical guffaws until he's bent double.

"I got nailed," he tells Dean. "I got nailed."

"You sure did," Dean mutters. The boy is gone again but the front door swings open. Sam's hand drips blood onto the wood floor and as he watches, the red droplets spread and join and form the words _GET OUT_. Dean does.

ooooo

Dean (_is dead_) pushes Sam ahead of him and they burst out onto the porch. Sam stumbles and promptly falls down the three front steps and onto the pavement. He throws his hands out to catch his fall which turns out to be a bad idea because all that happens is a bolt of pain explodes in his hand and flashes up his arm and the nail goes deeper into nerves and tendons. He rolls onto his side, vomits into the grass, and everything goes dark.

ooooo

When Sam opens his eyes he's on his back. A cloud sits like a white Buddha above him, and his hand is filled with glass. He shifts and turns to see Dean (_is dead_) crouched beside him, staring anxiously into Sam's face. Wait. Dean looks. Dean looks _not dead_. Sam bolts upright, nearly smacking Dean in the forehead. "Dean?" His eyes travel over Dean's face, his neck, his hands, checking, memorizing, _hoping_. Dean's eyes are clear, his complexion is good, his lips are chapped, but they're nowhere near blue. Sam grins like a loon and thinks _thank you God_ until it dawns on him this might be another trick, another trap, and his smile deflates just like his hope. He drops back onto the grass and waits for the kind of pain that's far worse than what's in his hand.

ooooo

"Sam? You okay?" It's a stupid question but it's habit, it's what he says, it's his _job_ to ask Sam shit like this, to take care of him, and unlike some people, Dean fucking loves (_Sam_) his job. Sam's not okay, not even close. His hand is toast and his forehead is scraped raw from where he took a nose-dive off the porch, but both those things pale in comparison to Sam's schizophrenic ranting upstairs.

Sam turns his head away, eyes still closed. He swallows and his forehead creases, and Dean can tell he's trying hard to act calm. "Are you dead?" Sam asks and his voice is dry and flat as pavement and Dean wants to pretend Sam's joking, that he's goofing around, that he's being an ass, but Dean knows better. He wants to deny and cajole and wink and smirk his way out of this, but he can't, because Sam opens his eyes and looks at him with a dull stare, already resigned before Dean says a word.

Dean coughs, but it does nothing to dislodge the hot embers from this throat, does nothing to stop the stinging behind his eyes. "I'm not dead," Dean says firmly. "Whatever you saw in there, Sam, it wasn't real."

Sam watches him for a long moment, and when his eyes finally flood with tears, Dean curls his fingers into the collar of Sam's coat and if his own eyes are wet, there's no around to see.


	2. Chapter 2

Once Sam's safely in the car Dean peels rubber away from the house. He makes it five blocks before it dawns on him he has no fucking clue where the hospital is. Sam is hunched against the door, hand cradled to his chest, mute. He hasn't said a word since asking if Dean was dead and Dean is pretty much (_completely_) freaked out. He can't quite figure out why Sam punched his fist through the wall. Did he do it on purpose? Was he trying to punch…what? A ghost? And really, that makes even less sense than punching the wall. Dean glances in the rearview mirror, veers into the right lane and pulls into a gas station. He sits still for a moment, lets the car idle. He waits for Sam to say something, anything, like _what are you doing?_ or _this doesn't look like the hospital, dumbass._

But Sam just sits there like nothing's wrong, like he doesn't have part of a fucking nail jammed in his hand.

Dean shifts in his seat, drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He finally turns to Sam and gives him his very best _tell me the truth because I'm your big brother dammit_ look and says, "Tell me what you saw back there."

Sam's jaw works and he stares hard at the dashboard, like he's maybe waiting for permission to speak. But the dashboard remains silent and so does Sam.

Dean's not in the mood to put up with this kind of shit, so he snaps his fingers in Sam's face. "Sam."

Sam slides his gaze toward the gas station, watches a kid poke at a pink wad of gum on the ground with a stick. "You were dead," Sam says simply. He touches the point of the nail gently, casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like the fucking thing has always been there and Dean hastily looks away. He feels sick. He should already be in the store, figuring out where to go. Sam's hand can be fixed, it can heal, he's not sure so sure about the rest of Sam.

So Dean picks at a spot of dried coffee on the upholstery and says "I get that part. I just meant, how did I die? I mean, how did it _look_ like I died? Why did you…" Dean's voice threatens to creak like an old porch door but he pulls it together, "why did you do that to your hand?"

Sam's still watching the kid and Dean wants to tell him to knock it off, to look at _him_, but all he does is wait (_hope_) for Sam to speak. "I…I don't know. You were just." Sam stops and he sounds so miserable Dean wants to kick something. Hard. Sam shrugs helplessly. "You were _dead_. We were talking and your face, your skin--" Sam sniffs, clears his throat. When he starts again, his voice is deadly calm and Dean knows it must be taking everything Sam has to sound that composed. "It was obvious. There was blood and your eyes were…I could just tell. I knew you were gone."

Part of Dean's brain wants to know if he looked like an Angela zombie or if he was more Dawn of the Dead. But there's no way in hell he's gonna ask Sam that. At least not right now. "And you thought it was the Trickster?"

Sam nods, still watching the boy poke the gum for what's gotta be the billionth time and Dean wishes the kid would take a fucking hike. "Yeah. I thought the Trickster was…" Sam's voice drops lower and Dean shifts again, straining to hear. He puts an arm around the back of Sam's headrest, his wrist touching the back of Sam's hair. Sam doesn't pull away, and Dean considers that a good sign. "…punishing me," Sam continues. "I saw the woman—the ghost—and thought it was him. I wasn't thinking and I just…I wanted to hurt him. Break his face. _Something._" Sam finally turns to Dean and his eyes are red and hopeless and the force of Sam's despair feels like a weight on Dean's chest. Sam laughs and the sound is wretched. "But I think I broke my hand instead."

Dean's pretty sure Sam's lying his ass off, but there's no way to prove it, and even if he could, he knows Sam would never willingly change his story. The ugly truth is Sam thought Dean was dead and stuck his hand through a wall, the end. It's not like Dean can blame him. A broken hand is probably better—and less fucked up—than a deal with a crossroads demon any day. Dean pats the back of Sam's head gently and opens the door. "I'm gonna find out where the nearest hospital is. Just sit tight, okay?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. Okay."

Dean gets out of the car, hesitates. He leans back in, one hand on the car door. "You know that wasn't the Trickster, right? This isn't his M.O. Neither one of us a pompous asshole." Dean grins slightly, willing Sam to do the same. "Although you _are_ kind of pretentious sometimes."

Sam turns his gaze back to the window. "I know," he says, voice listless. "It was the ghost."

"_Two_ ghosts," Dean corrects. "I think we're gonna have to have another talk with Jayne and Jerry." He slams the car door shut and motions toward the little convenience store. "I'll be right back," he promises, and takes off.

ooooo

Once Sam's hand is in a cast and _sans_ nail, they wait till the doc's calling in a pain prescription at a nearby pharmacy and make a beeline for the exit. They've got plenty of Advil and a couple of old Percocet to get Sam through the worst of it, so they get in the Impala and head straight for the Days Inn.

It's almost ten by the time they get there, and Jayne's curled on the twin bed closest to the window, already asleep.

Jerry picks up on Dean's mood right away and flicks a nervous look between the brothers. "What's wrong?"

"There's more than one ghost in that house," Dean says simply. He seats himself on the end of Jerry's bed.

Jerry stares at him, open-mouthed. His mouth drops wider when he sees Sam's hand. "What happened?"

Sam grabs the chair next to the mini-fridge and moves it so that it's beside the bed. He straddles it and rests the cast along the scalloped back. "I saw the ghost that attacked Jayne." His voice is quiet and it still sounds too flat, too controlled for Dean's comfort. Sam's said less than a ten words since they left the hospital. Dean's been prodding, trying to understand exactly what Sam saw in that hallway, but Dean knows the real danger isn't in what happened to Sam, it's in how he deals with it.

"And it did _that_ to you?" Jerry asks, clearly horrified.

Sam doesn't meet Panowski's eyes. "Not exactly. It…" he hesitates, runs out words. He looks pale and uncomfortable; the gash on his forehead looks raw and angry. "It made me think Dean was dead."

Dean can still hear Sam's frenzied whispers, see his hand go through the wall, and he wishes there was a way he could make Jerry see how this haunting is ten times more fucked up than he expected. This isn't just about helping an old friend or saving Jayne's bed and breakfast, this is personal now. This isn't about saving the house, it's about saving Sam. Dean's days might be numbered, but Sam's the one who looks like he's dying and Dean's had enough. He's gonna save Sam no matter what it takes. Which, if he thinks about it, is kind of how this whole mess got started. So he stops thinking about that and focuses on Panowksi.

"Jesus," Jerry mutters. He moves to the mini fridge and takes out a diet Coke. "Want one?" He holds the can up and looks from Dean to Sam.

Dean shakes his head but Sam accepts one. He pops the soda open and swallows down three Advil.

"You said there was another ghost?" Jerry opens his own soda and stares into the can, as if the second ghost is hiding inside.

"Yeah. And we're definitely gonna have to do research," Dean says, flashing a pointed _I told you so_ look at Sam. "They seem to be from different time periods and they didn't really interact. In fact, the kid seemed like he was trying to help us." Helpful ghosts freak him out more than the violent ones. Spirits that try to toss you off a bridge or slash you with a hook are just doing what they're supposed to be doing: scaring the shit out of people. Ghosts are the twisted, broken remnants of people who've died and can't (_or won't_) move on. Ghosts that act helpful--or worse, don't realize they're dead—just make him nervous. And maybe that's part of it, right there. Maybe the kid doesn't know he's dead. The only friendly ghost he's ever trusted was Casper back when he was eight…and that ended the minute the round-headed freak made googly eyes at Wendy.

Jerry frowns. "A…kid?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. A boy, maybe nine or ten. Blond hair and glasses. Maybe he died there before Jayne moved in, maybe he lived there twenty years ago. We won't know until we check the history of the house."

"He's never lived there." Jayne's voice startles them all. She's sitting up, her hair matted, glasses on the nightstand. She blinks owlishly at Jerry.

Jerry shakes his head, picking up on something Dean's not. "Jayne. It's not him."

Dean frowns. "Not who?"

"Leo," Jayne says. "My son."

ooooo

"Don't you think you should have mentioned this _before_?" Dean's glare lands on Jayne for a long moment before shifting to Jerry.

"Why would she mention it?" Jerry demands angrily. "Leo died months ago in a different house, in a different city, in a different _state_."

Sam thinks of Claire Becker and Molly McNamara, and the familiar pain in his stomach sparks to life. He takes another sip of soda and the pain blazes hot and sharp, almost worse than his hand. He lurches to his feet and heads for the bathroom.

He leans against the sink, head down, and fumbles the roll of Rolaids out of pocket. Sam pops three of them into his mouth and chews them mechanically. He cups his hand under the faucet and swallows a handful of lukewarm water, careful to avoid his reflection in the mirror. He wonders what it will be like to be an only child. The mirror wavers, and he leans against the sink,willing the room to right itself. He stares down into the pristine sink and thinks of another one, a sink in a vision spattered with blood. He hadn't been able to save Dr. Jennings, and in the end, he couldn't save Andy either. He's not going to lose Dean too. He's _not_.

He can still hear Dean asking about the boy and Jayne's soft reply. He takes a deep breath and emerges from the bathroom, a friendly smile tacked to his face, head cocked as if he's just waiting to listen.

Sam returns to his chair and nods at Dean, but the voice he hears inside his head doesn't belong to Jayne. _Sam, there's a lesson here that I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours. This obsession to save Dean, the way you two sacrifice yourselves for each other? Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood and pain. Dean's your weakness, and the bad guys know it. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go._

Sam's spent his life letting people go. His mother, friends, Jess, Dad. He's not about to add Dean to the list.

ooooo

By the time they get back to the motel, it's nearly one. Dean wants to fall face-first into bed, but Sam's been a little too quiet for comfort and he knows he should try to pry a few answers out of him before drifting off.

Dean pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it over the back of the chair. "How's your hand?" he asks, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders.

Sam boots up his laptop and flips open the book on Ásatrú rituals. He keeps his eyes on the index and not Dean. "It's fine."

Dean rummages in his duffel and pulls out the first aid kit and rattles it toward Sam. "You sure?"

"It's _fine_," Sam repeats, typing faster with one hand than Dean does with two. Show-off.

Dean slides the first aid kit back into the bag and collapses onto the bed. He crosses his arms behind his head and watches his brother. Sam's concentrating on whatever he's reading, tongue tucked between his teeth like a dork. He's not paying attention to Dean (_as usual_), so Dean decided now's as good a time as any to ask. "Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you mean before, that you thought the Trickster was trying to punish you?"

Sam frowns over the top of the laptop screen. "I didn't--"

"You might find this shocking, but I do listen to what you say," Dean says mildly. The corner of his mouth ticks upward. "Sometimes. If I don't have anything better to do. And this afternoon was one of those rare times, dude. So quit stalling."

Sam closes the laptop with a snap, accidentally smacking his cast against the table top in the process. He flinches, face tight with pain. "Dean, it didn't mean anything."

Dean sits up and rolls his eyes. "How about you let me be the judge of that."

"He was…" Sam hesitates. "He was trying to teach me a lesson last time." Sam swallows and makes a face, as if telling the truth tastes weird. Maybe it does.

"What kind of lesson?"

Sam's silent so long Dean thinks he's not going to answer, but then Sam says "That I should stop trying to save you." Sam rubs the back of his neck, his expression bleak.

Dean considers this. From Sam's reluctance to elaborate and general air of misery, he's probably telling the truth. "Huh," Dean says, "that's just…" he flails for a word and settles on "rude. I'm _totally_ worth saving."

Sam stalks into the bathroom, but the door stays open. Dean can't see him, but he hears the water run. "You know what I mean," Sam says, his voice rigid. "If you wanna sit there and talk like an ass, that's fine. I'm used to it."

Dean clucks. "Jeez, now _you're_ rude."

The door slams and Dean sighs. He's not rude. Much. He's just not as tactful as he could be. Life's _way_ too short for tact. Especially his.

Dean drops back onto the bed. "Sam. Come on. Don't let him get to you."

Sam's answer is the _snick_ of the bathroom lock.

ooooo

Sam sits on the edge of the tub. He lets the shower run for a long time, at least half an hour. He sits with his eyes closed, listening. He listens to the patter of water against the shower curtain, against the chipped tub. He listens for sounds outside the room. He waits for Dean to pound on the door, to yell for Sam to _hurry up_ or _quit being a such a freaking baby._

The tiny room fills with steam, the heat pressing against Sam's face and arms, but he doesn't move. The air feels thick, like fog, and he watches the shape of his reflection (_only the shape_) fade into the haze.

He thinks about faith and God and trust. He might still believe in God and angels, but if he does, his faith is tenuous at best. He wants to believe in God, believe in goodness, but he's only seen the evil. He's seen so much darkness and so little light. What he does believe in is Dean. And he puts his trust in knowledge and research. He's prayed more in the past nine months than he has in the previous twenty-four years. He's prayed and read and hoped and bargained and begged and the only thing he got for his trouble was more desperate, more afraid, and more alone.

The water goes from hot to luke warm, and eventually the steam clears enough to let Sam's reflection resurface. Sam listens for the sound of Dean's movement outside the door, and finally reaches for the faucet handle. He turns the handle and the pipes creak, complaining, but the water stops.

Sam doesn't know if he believes in God, but he definitely believes in _a_ god. He unlocks the door and listens.

There's nothing but the drip of the shower and the thud of his heart in his ears. He waits, straining, face pressed to the cheap wood--and there it is. The sound of Dean's breathing.

Sam dreads a future of silence, a future without Dean's snoring, a future of nothing but _himself_. He thinks about Jayne Robert and losing her son to cancer. He thinks about losing his mother to a demon. Everyone says it's terrible for a mother to lose her child, how you never get over the loss. But Sam's never gotten over losing Mom, not really. It helped seeing her in their old house, but it didn't heal the wound of her loss; it just let it scab over. He already knows there won't be any healing after Dean's gone.

Sam reaches into a pocket for the tube of Rolaids and grabs the keys off the dresser. He's careful not to wake Dean when he slips outside.

ooooo

A dumpster sits at the edge of the small parking lot tucked behind the motel. Beyond it is a field filled with clumps of brown grass. Plastic bags blow in the night breeze like pale ghosts, and Sam crouches behind the big metal container. He's got everything arranged, just like the books say, just like the dozen websites he's been surfing tell him to. But he still feels like a fool.

He feels like he's just stumbled into a Catholic church with a bag of Wonder Bread and a pitcher of Kool-Aid and declared it Communion. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he's not exactly sure _why_ he's doing it, other than it's one of the few things he hasn't tried. So Sam sits in a field at half past two in the morning and arranges an offering to a god who goes by many names: Lie-Smith, Sly God, Shape-Changer, Sly One, Sky Traveler, Wizard of Lies, Trickster. The name he's best known by is Loki.

Sam kneels and lights the small bunch of kindling he's assembled. He has the last bottle of Dean's dark beer from his not-so-secret stash hidden in the trunk of the Impala. He has some candles, a hammer, his favorite knife, a well-thumbed copy of the _Elder Edda_, a small wooden bowl, and a silver cup. He lights two half-melted votive candles and places them on the either side of the fire. Next, he rummages in his pocket for the little velvet bag he pulled from the weapons cache. He tips the bag, and eight obsidian stones fall into the palm of his hand, each carved with a rune. Tucked in the very bottom of the bag is a small packet of incense.

Sam arranges three cones of incense in the bowl—myrrh, cedar and saffron. The eight runes are from the Elder Futhark, Freyja's Ætt. He drops the stones back into the bag, one at a time, until he finds the one marked with an X. This is the gift rune, and he offers himself, his knowledge, his hope, his respect, his loyalty, even his protection.

He sets out small offerings--a pile of sunflower seeds, a handful of dried berries, a container of honey--all arranged around the rune stone. Lastly, Sam fills the silver cup with the dark beer and picks up the knife. He draws the knife across the palm of his hand, but he barely feels it. He's too keyed up, too nervous to feel anything besides a kind of wild desperation. He holds his hand above the cup and watches as a few drops of blood fall into the liquid. The blood swirls, spreading like dark clouds across the surface of the liquid.

Sam wipes the palm of his hand on the grass and lifts the cup. He picks up the hammer and moves it in a circle over the silver glass. He lays the hammer beside the bowl and flips the _Elder Edda_ open to a section of the mythical poem _Lokasenna_. It's only for the sake of the ritual, he has the stanza memorized. "Hail to thee, Loki and this cool cup receive, full of old mead; at least me alone, among the blameless Æsir race, leave stainless." It's a passage said by the goddess Sif to Loki, and although the cup isn't filled with mead and he's not a god and he's _far_ from blameless, it's all Sam can think to do. He brings the cup to his lips and drinks.

Ruby can't (_won't_) tell him who holds the contract on Dean's soul and he's finished with crossroads demons (_for now_). Sam figures the Trickster took an interest in him for a reason, and if it amuses him, if it's fun for him to torment Sam, maybe Sam can make it just as entertaining for the Trickster to help. Sam has no idea _how_ to accomplish this (_not yet_), but he's (_more than_) willing to do just about anything to save Dean.

Pain burns in Sam's stomach, echoing the tiny fire, and he shifts into a sitting position. He pops two more Rolaids into his mouth and looks up at the stars. He wonders if anyone's watching.

He sits for almost forty-five minutes, until the beer is gone and the candles are reduced to burnt-up wicks. He sits until his ass tingles with pins and needles and his left foot feels like a block of wood. He sits until a car pulls into the lot and he's afraid he'll be seen. It's not like he's been expecting the Trickster to appear with a grin and a plan, he's not _that_ stupid. He's not expecting anything. He just wants the Trickster to know, if he's watching, if he knows (_and he has to, he _has_ to_) that Sam means business, he's _going_ to save Dean. He'd like the Trickster's help. But he doesn't need it. The only thing he really needs is Dean.

Sam cleans up, scatters the remains of the fire and returns the silver cup, rune bag, knife and hammer to the car. He leaves the three offerings exactly as they are. When he returns to the room, Dean's still asleep, and Sam listens.

ooooo

The next morning Jayne and Jerry are waiting at the house, and Dean is pissed. "What are you doing here?" he demands. "This isn't the plan."

Sam pushes the car door shut with his cast. "It's their choice," Sam says quietly.

Dean grimaces. "Jerry, you know better than this. You've been through shit like this before."

Jerry nods. "I know, but this is–"

"I have to go back in," Jayne interrupts. "I need to see Leo."

Sam smiles, his face mournful. "Just because you go in doesn't mean you'll see him. I didn't."

Jayne swallows. "I know. But Dean did. And whether I see him or not, he'll see me. Right?" She looks from Sam to Dean, insistent. "_Right_?"

Dean opens the trunk and pulls out the bag from yesterday. "Look, this isn't exact science, all right? There's no saying he'll even be there. Maybe it's just the happy strangler today." He pokes a finger at the siblings. "Which means it's safer for you out here. Actually," he amends grimly, "it's safer for you back at the hotel."

"Jerry told me what to do," Jayne counters, ignoring Dean. She pulls two crowbars from the backseat of Jerry's truck and hands one to her brother. "Iron," she says. "Iron, um, deflects ghosts. And we still have salt," she continues doggedly.

Dean stares at her, silent.

She wilts under his gaze. "Please. I need to say goodbye." Her eyes look bruised behind her glasses. "If you had a chance to say goodbye to someone you lost, wouldn't you do it?"

That makes Dean squirm. He slings the bag over his arm and slams the trunk closed. "It's not safe," Dean says again, but Sam can see he's backing down.

"Yes," Sam tells her, avoiding Dean's gaze. "I would."

"It's not safe," Dean warns her again.

"Nothing is," Jayne says simply.

Jerry hefts the crowbar and squares his shoulders. "If she goes in, so do I. I'm divorced, Dean. My folks are dead. My kids barely talk to me. Jayne is all the family I have left. I'm not letting her go in there alone."

Dean looks to Sam for help, but Sam just shrugs.

"All you have to do is put those little bags in the walls, right?" Jayne asks. "We can help with that."

"You're not actually helping if we have to protect you instead of cleansing the house."

Jayne lifts her chin, defiant. "I'm going in."

Dean sighs, defeated. "Fine. On one condition."

"Name it," Jerry says.

"If things go south, you get out. That means you haul ass if I tell you to, or if Sam tells you. Got it?"

Jayne nods. "Got it."

"Understood," Jerry says.

"All right, look," Dean cautions, as they head for the porch. "This isn't a parade. This is dangerous. You're not wandering off on your own. No one's splitting up, we're all staying together."

"But won't that take longer?" Jerry asks. "It'll be faster if we separate, right? Wouldn't that be safer?" He darts his hand back and forth. "You know, in and out?"

"Faster doesn't mean safer," Sam replies and pulls the front door open.

Dean puts a hand on Sam's arm. "Listen," he says quietly. "You trust what I say, not what you see, got it?" Dean looks back at Jayne and Jerry. "That goes for you too. This ghost likes to play head games. What you see isn't necessarily what you get. So before you freak out and start punching walls–" Dean casts a pointed look at Sam, "–make sure you know what's really going on."

Sam pulls the door open and they head inside.

ooooo

Dean's plan starts well. They go to the basement first. Sam and Dean are in the lead, and the stairs creak and the lights flicker, but nothing appears. No ghosts of either gender put in an appearance, so by the time he and Jerry have pried one of the old field stones out of the wall and Sam's slid in the bag, he's thinking _so far, so good_.

It turns out the basement was a freebie, though, because she's waiting for them on the first floor. She picks Jayne up without even touching her and hurls her across the room. Jayne screams, smashes against part of the mantle and drops to the floor. Jerry rushes to her, panicked, face devoid of color. "What's happening?"

_I told you to get out of my house, take him out of my house_

Dean whirls around, eyes darting across the room. "I don't see her."

Sam points the rifle. "She's there," he says, and shoots. The ghost explodes like a flock of birds in a field and reshapes in front of Sam. Her empty face flickers and then a pair of wide-set eyes watch him mournfully, mouth turned down, a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. _Why did you kill me?_ she asks. _Killing me didn't save Dean._

"Where is she?" Dean demands.

"Right here," Sam bellows and lifts the gun and it's like déjà vu, but he can't dwell on that, he can't. This isn't the crossroads demon, this is a ghost and she's _seriously_ pissing him off. But the ghost isn't about to cooperate, and she jerks the gun out of his hands, sending it flying. Dean ducks just in time to avoid getting brained. Sam takes a step backwards and his knees hit the couch. Dean fires his own shotgun, and the rock salt blasts past Sam, but the ghost's already gone. "Did I get it?"

Sam shakes his head, and he clutches his stomach with one hand. He casts another gaze round the room. "She's gone."

"How's Jayne?"

Jayne's face is bleeding, but she's awake and coherent enough to ask where Leo is. "I don't see him," Dean says, checking the room. He glances toward Sam. "Do you?"

When he looks at Sam, Dean's eyes go black, and his expression shifts from worried to sly. He winks at Sam, flashes his teeth. "I can't wait to leave you behind. You're nothing but dead weight. I can't believe I sold my soul to bring you back. What I wouldn't give for a refund."

Sam blinks, mouth dry. His chest feels too tight. "What…what did you say?"

Dean stares at him like he's just gone mental and Sam thinks maybe he has. That's not how Dean thinks of him, (_dead weight, and that's just what he is, literally_) it's _not_. "I said we can't wait around here, we've gotta get going before it's too late." Dean lifts an eyebrow and his eyes are still black and Sam doesn't want to look at him but he can't stop.

"Wait a sec," Dean says. "Are you seeing more weird shit? Am I dead again?"

Sam swallows. "No. Possessed."

Dean snorts and pats his chest. "Not happening, dude. I've got the tat to prove it."

Sam nods, relaxes slightly. That's true. Dean can't be possessed, not any more. And more importantly, neither can Sam. "Okay. Let's go."

Jerry helps Jayne to her feet and Sam wants to tell them _just wait_, but before he can open his mouth he's thrown back against the couch and it slides a good four feet across the room, ornate clawed feet grinding across oak floorboards. The couch tips onto its back and Sam goes with it, pinned to the floor. The ghost is there, smiling, and now she looks like Ava, and she wields Ava's voice like a knife. "You said you'd protect me, Sam, but you let him have me. You didn't even _try_ to find me. You just left me in that fucking ghost town for all those months, you let me turn into a monster." Pain and accusation ring her voice like barbed wire and she puts a hand to Sam's chest. "That's what you could become, Sam. Why don't you lead the demons, Sam? I know you want to save Dean. Ruby's waiting for you."

Pain crushes Sam's chest. It feels like all his ribs break at once and he screams, flailing, desperate to get away from Ava's face, from the pain. It's like there's something alive burrowing inside him, hot and hungry and it bites and grinds and he screams because this pain is the whole universe, it's like nothing he's ever felt, and the room is a pinprick in the distance and the pain is bright and endless and rushes at him with open arms.

ooooo

Sam's howling like his guts are coming out, and Dean launches himself over the couch like a fucking stuntman or whatever, and if he wasn't so freaking terrified he'd be patting himself on the back over the sheer _awesomeness_ of that move.

Jerry's waving his crowbar around like it's a magic wand and Jayne's calling for Leo and Sam's waving his arms, flat-out screaming. "What?" Dean demands, spiraling in a circle, "_What?_" Because he can't see a thing. He can't see the fucking bitch of a ghost, but she's there all right, he knows she's there, and he shoots the air right above Sam's heaving chest.

Dean drops beside him and Sam's pasty-faced and his eyes are slits and he stares at Dean like he's never seen him before. Dean pats his cheek, checks his pulse. It's a stuttering drumbeat, and a thread of blood leaks from Sam's nose. Dean wipes it away with his thumb and pats Sam's face again. "Sam? Sammy?"

This shit is _so_ not worth it. They should just burn the house down and be done with it. Sam's eyes refocus and he groans. "Guh." And then, "Dnnn."

Dean tries to smile, tries to say something funny and clever but his lips don't get the message because what comes out of his mouth is "Jesus, Sam. Are you okay?"

Leo appears on the other side of Sam like a fucking ghost-in-the-box and runs to his mother and uncle. "Mom! Mom?" Neither of them react, and it's obvious they don't know he's there. "Why can't they see me?" Leo demands, glaring at Dean, as if Leo's invisibility is something Dean engineered.

Dean snaps his fingers at Jerry. "Hey, Jer. Help me get Sam up."

Jerry and Dean get Sam to his feet and he Dean's relieved to see Sam upright. "I don't know," Dean grits to Leo, "Why can't I see the ghosty bitch?"

"Who are you talking to?" Jerry asks, eyes roving the room.

Jayne peers at Dean, as if he's hiding Leo under his coat or got him stuffed in a pocket. Dean sighs. "Leo. He's right here."

"I can't see him!" Jayne wails.

"Neither can I," Jerry says, and he backs toward Jayne, puts an arm around her shoulders.

Leo waves a hand in front of his mom's face but there's no reaction. Dean pulls a book from an overturned box and hands it to the boy. "Here. Swayze this at your Mom."

Leo stares from the book to Dean. "Do _what?_"

"Just throw it," Dean says. "Show them you're here."

Leo does one better. He takes the book and walks the three paces to his mother. He holds the book in front of her and Jayne's eyes fill with the tears. "Oh my God," she whispers. "Oh my God."

"T-The book's floating," Jerry stutters, shocked.

"It's not floating," Dean points out, "Leo's holding it."

Jayne takes the book and clutches it to her breast, as if she believes Leo can feel the force of her hug through the book.

Sam flinches and Dean looks at him, tries to adjust the grip worry has on him. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam says. He pulls a gris-gris bag from his pocket. "Come on, let's finish this."

"But I don't want Leo to go," Jayne says, her voice suffused with tears.

"We don't have a choice," Dean says harshly. "You don't get to pick. It's a two for one deal." Dean's eyebrows draw together. "Because I don't think it's you the ghost wants to get rid of, I think it's who you brought along."

ooooo

"I didn't bring him with me," Jayne cries, red-faced. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You didn't let him go," Dean shouts. "You couldn't say goodbye or let go or whatever the hell you were supposed to do and now he's here pissing off the big ghost on campus."

Jayne's face goes tight and her eyes flash. "And now you're pissing me off."

"I guess you'd know how easy it is to say goodbye," Sam says softly and brushes past Dean.

Dean huffs. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

But Sam's not listening because he's got to end this, he's got to finish this and he stoops painfully to pick up his shotgun and moves into the kitchen. He walks to the counter and uses his cast to smash a hole in the wall above a retro chrome toaster. He stuffs the gris-gris bag into the hole. His lungs feel bruised and his ribs are glass rods, but he can breathe and the pain is only a shadow of what it was.

He storms back out of the kitchen and Dean's _right there_, grinning, and his eyes are oil, beetle-black, and he says "I'm going to crawl back out of hell and kill you."

Sam walks around him and Dean calls _are you okay?_ Sam knows Dean isn't a demon but he knows someday (_demons lie, Ruby lies_) he might be and he feels sick. Is this how Dean felt when Sam was possessed?

Dean moves in front of him, blocks his way, and thankfully he's just Dean, his eyes full of nothing but concern. "Sam?"

"We've got to finish this," Sam says hoarsely and climbs the stairs. Jayne and Jerry follow.

"How did I bring Leo with me?" Jayne asks, "and why can't I see him? Why is this even happening?"

"I don't know, I don't know and I don't know," Dean tells her, focusing on the hallway.

"She's threatened," Sam blurts. "The ghost. That's why she's so desperate to get him--us--out of here."

"But he's just a little boy," Jayne protests.

"Not anymore," Sam says.

ooooo

Today the hall is empty--for the time being at least. And there, across from the second bedroom, is the neat hole where Sam punched the wall. Dean shoves the gris-gris bag inside and by the time Jerry reaches the top of the stairs, Dean's already done with the second floor. He heads for the stained glass window and the second set of stairs.

Dean takes the steps two at a time, Sam on his heels. Jerry and Jayne are slower, and that's just as well, Dean would rather it's him and Sam facing whatever nasty might be waiting, not Panowski and his sister. The stairs lead up to a huge attic. It's empty and clean, assorted swatches of wallpaper and paint chips forming a haphazard pattern along one wall. Dean's almost across the room, gris-gris bag in his hand, when the light fixture above his head flickers. Words appear on the wood floor in front of him, _get my mom out of here, get her out, get out_, and Dean's had enough. He points at Jerry and Jayne, then the stairs. "This is it," he says. "This is officially south. Get out. Now. Both of you."

ooooo

Sam positions himself between Jerry and Jayne and Dean. The light flickers and words appear on the wood floor in front of him, _you can't be saved and neither can Dean_. Sam looks up to see the ghost wearing Ruby's face. She snatches his shirt and hoists him into the air like Sam's immune to gravity. Ruby's eyes are black, and she grins. "You figure out I lied about saving Dean, yet, Sam? I can't believe you fell for that. You and Dean both, you're all talk and no walk. I don't know why I ever bothered with you."

"Neither do I," Sam grunts. "Dean, go!" he shouts, and smashes his cast into her face.  
The spirit reels backward and Sam drops to the floor into a crouch. Ruby's face is gone. There's no face at all, just empty malevolence and two glowing eyes like stars in the dark. _How did you do that?_ she demands, and Sam doesn't hear the scream as much as feels it echo in his head, in the itch of his teeth.

ooooo

Sam lifts into the air like he's wearing some kind of freaking jet shoes, and even though Dean can't see the bitch, he can hear her voice. It sounds strangely like Ruby. Sam yells at him to _go_, and Dean runs for the east wall.

ooooo

_You can't stop me_, she says, but Sam's not concerned with stopping her, he's concerned with _slowing her down_ so Dean can finish the job. He advances on her, face grim, gun ready, but she's not there. He whirls to see her yank the crowbar out of Jayne's hand and ram it into her, effectively pinning Jayne to the wall.

Sam yells _shit_, and shoots.

The spirit dissolves but the bare walls warp and twist until they're blackened with mold and cobwebs festoon the light fixtures. The wood floor beneath his feet ripples, and worn blue carpet laps across the wood like water. A noose dangles from a crossbeam, and swinging from it, a pale negative of a woman. A woman wearing a long navy skirt and a white lace blouse. Faded books lie below the soles of her feet, and beside them a sheet of parchment bears the bloody signature _Sarah Morrow_. An open straight razor smiles across the paper.

_This is my house. I made an agreement, I forfeit my soul to stay here forever and you will not make me leave._

"Deals are made to be broken," Sam hisses and jams the rifle into the void of Sarah Morrow's face. He's ready for her this time.

ooooo

Dean uses the butt of the shot gun to bash a hole in the wall. He stuffs the last gris-gris bag inside and--

Nothing happens.

What the hell? He looks back to make sure Jerry and Jayne are gone when he sees the crowbar jerk out of Jayne's hand, hover momentarily, and (_holy fuck on a stick!_) impale her to the wall.

Sam yells _shit_ and shoots, rock salt briefly illuminating the outline of a woman.

A scream spirals through the room and Dean thinks it's Jayne or maybe Jerry, but it's Leo. The boy stands in the center of the room, hands fisted, eyes wide and blazing. The walls glow like they've been dipped in gold. The bloody words on the floor hiss and sputter like hot grease and evaporate into curls of smoke. Spokes of light pierce the semi-darkness, their intensity growing brighter until Dean is forced to squint and then squeeze his eyes shut, and still the light stabs his eyeballs like clumsy fingers.

ooooo

The sound starts small, like a whisper, like a leaf skittering along a sidewalk, but it builds to a roar, to _thunder_, and lightning comes with it, flashing inside the attic with enough force to make Sam's skull throb.

No!

The moldy walls straighten and the floor unbuckles. A wave of white light sweeps through the attic, erasing cobwebs and carpet, blood and books. The brilliant glow envelopes the last cobweb with a sound like bells and then the light is gone. The sudden gloom makes the room feels like night and Sam blinks rapidly, struggling to find Dean's familiar shape, to make his way toward Jayne.

Leo's already there. He stands beside his mother, both arms wrapped around her waist, tears streaming down his face.

ooooo

The attic is a simple room once more, there's no torn wallpaper, no cascade of light. But Leo is there. And so is Sarah.

The anguish on the boy's face forces Sam to look away.

ooooo

"Mom please," Leo begs, both of his hands gripping one of hers. "Mom. Mommy."

"We've got get her down," Jerry says brokenly. "Help me."

"You shouldn't remove the bar," Dean says.

"I'm not leaving her hung on the wall like a…like a fucking painting!" Jerry shrieks. He turns to his nephew. "Help me Leo, okay? Can you help?"

"I don't know what's happening," Leo whispers, face pale and sickly. Now he actually looks like a ghost. Jayne mutters softly to herself, she doesn't scream or cry, not even when Jerry pulls out the bar. Jerry catches her beneath one arm and lowers her to the floor. Leo doesn't let go of her hand.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "I told you to get out," he says hoarsely, "I _told_ you this would be dangerous."

"What do we do?" Jerry mutters. "What do we do?" He blinks, like he's trying to wake up, rubs his face. "My cell. Gotta get my cell." He fumbles in his pockets, movements jerky, fingers clumsy like they're made of wood. "Need to call 911."

Shit. Fuck. What should he do? Dean can't very well leave them. The ghost (_ghosts, plural_) is still here, and he sure as hell doesn't want the cops involved. How are they supposed to get out of this? It's not like he can pull a believable _crowbar through the gut mishap_ excuse out of his ass. "Sam? We hafta–" He stares. Sam has his hands around the ghost's throat and not only can Dean see her, she has a face. And it looks pretty pissed.

_What _are_ you?_ The ghost chokes out, eyes burning into Sam.

Dean strides forward, shotgun ready. "He's a guy with a brother who's sick of looking at you," Dean says, and he shoots the bitch.

ooooo

Sam drops to his knees and scrambles along the floor, hands digging along the narrow space between wall and floor, fingers skimming for loose boards. He should have realized the minute he saw the contract. It's still here. Somewhere in the attic. Someone hid it. He doesn't know why or when and he doesn't care, because he's going to _find_ it and break the contract. He's going to break the deal.

He can do it.

He crawls across the floor, jeans covered in a fine patina of dust, his hair damp with sweat. He can feel the hard square of the rune stone in his pocket, but he doesn't think about it. He's going to break this deal, and then: Dean's.

"What are you doing?"

Sam glances up at his brother. "Don't you get it? The contract. It's got to be here. That's why she won't go, that's why the ritual didn't work."

Dean's face twists into a magnificent frown. "What are you talking about?"

Sam jumps to his feet, checks the base of the chimney for loose bricks. "The ghost is–was–Sarah Morrow. She sold her soul to the demon, the devil, whatever. One of those sign-your-name-in-blood things. And I think the contract's still here. That's why she can stay. That's why she's so powerful."

"Maybe she's just drawing energy off the kid." Dean points out. He lifts an eyebrow. "Or you."

Sam stalks to the window and feels beneath the thin ledge. And there, hidden in a hollow space beneath the ledge, is a thin leather satchel. Sam tears the bag open, and an ivory handled razor winks up at him. Beneath the razor is a faded rectangle of parchment. He unfolds it and there is Sara Morrow's careful signature, the blood turned black.

Dean snatches the page from Sam's hand, flicks his lighter and holds the flame to paper. The page catches instantly, and Dean drops it to the floor, where it curls in on itself like it's dying. Sarah growls, her face a rigid mask of rage, but as the paper burns so does she. Within seconds, there's nothing but a charred smudge of ash on the floor. The ghost is gone.

But Leo's not.

ooooo

She's going to die. She can tell because Leo's here. And Jerry's crying like he's six again and just lost his bike. But mostly she knows she's going to die because there's a big piece of metal sticking out of her and there's a lot of blood and that _can't_ be good.

There's not much pain, but there's an all-encompassing weariness. Her eyelids weigh a thousand pounds, but she strains to keep them open because there's Leo. _Leo._

Jerry is crying and she doesn't know why. She wants to tell him it's okay, because Leo's here, her boy. His face is pressed against hers and she can smell his hair and his skin and tears leak down her face and into her hair, into her ears. "Mom, _Mom_," he chokes, and Jayne doesn't understand _why_ he's here, because he's dead, but she doesn't care, doesn't need to know why because it's enough that she can see him. She can feel his perfect hand in hers, his blue eyes peer into hers and Jayne doesn't want to move or breathe or blink to break the moment.

"I never left you," Leo tells her, sniffling. "I was always here but you couldn't see me and I was scared, I was _scared_ because I didn't know what was happening and I still don't but I don't want you to die. Please Mom, not yet."

Jerry grips Jayne's other hand and his hand is familiar, it's family, it's the feel of bike rides and camp fires and sarcasm and drunken Monopoly games and lame jokes and love and guilt and awkward dinners and forgiveness. "Jayne. It's gonna be okay, Jayne," he says, like her name's a talisman, and if he says it enough she really will be all right.

Leo squeezes her hand tighter, and his hand feels like laughter and sunshine and kites and running barefoot and more love than she knows what to do with. But it also feels like despair and dark corridors and distance and ventilators and _loss_. "I love you, Mom," he tells her, "but I want to go home."

Jayne wants to tell him this _is_ home now, Maison Belle. These rooms are his home. These rooms are _waiting_ for him, they need him as badly as she does, because without his voice, his laughter, Maison Belle will only be a series of walls and floors and furniture and strangers. It will be a house, _her_ house, but never her home. She wants to squeeze his fingers back, to rub her thumb over the back of hand, to tell him she was wrong, she doesn't want this house (_life_) without him. But she's tired, and when she tries to open her mouth she finds it's made of stone, her tongue is lead.

The shorter, older Winchester brother leans over and says _the ambulance is on its way_, and she sees the black rectangle of phone in his hand and closes her eyes. She's tired and she wants to sleep, because she has a feeling sleep means she can stay with Leo.

Jerry won't let her sleep, though. He keeps yelling at her, pleading with her to open her eyes, to talk to him, but both tasks take require too much energy, too much work. There's another voice now, and it says _he's your brother, he loves you, Jayne. Please don't go_, and she can't think of his name, but her brain tells her the voice belongs to the younger Winchester, the one with the big eyes and long hair. She thinks about his words, turns them over in her mind and considers them. Jerry's voice is still there as well, still begging, but the only voice she wants now is Leo's.

Her son's voice is soft in her ear and she thinks of sleeping bags and tents made from blankets and the soft fuzz of hair on his head when he was just a baby and he fit in her arms like he was _made_ for them. "Let me go," he whispers, "just for a little while. I'll see you again, but not yet. It's not time." She thinks _it wasn't your time either but you left me alone_, and she can feel fingers fumbling at her neck and her wrist but she doesn't know why.

_It _was_ my time,_ Leo tells her, _we just didn't know it._

Jayne wants to shake her head. No. He's wrong. It wasn't. It's _not._

_I'll always love you but you have to let me go. I'm tired, too. Please, Mom._

More tears slip from beneath her burning eyelids. No matter what she wants, she won't deny him, she can't. She's his mother, and she'll do whatever she can, always, _always_. Even if it means letting go.

Because that's all she has to do. Let go. Let go of Jerry's hand and go with Leo. Let go of Leo and stay in this empty house-not-home. Let go of Leo and live with the knowledge there are things in the dark better left unknown and unseen.

Jayne is tired, and she's lying in a spreading pool of her own blood. Jayne wills her fingers to squeeze once, twice, and then she lets go.

ooooo

Sam stands in front of the window and watches the ambulance pull away, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Dean checks the EMF meter for the tenth time and the reading's the same: nothing. The house is one hundred percent ghost-free. Dean goes back up to the attic and down to the basement and the EMF stays quiet. When Dean returns to the living room, Sam's still standing there, staring out at nothing.

"Looks like they're gone," Dean says to Sam's back. "She'll make it." It's probably a lie, but he's pretty sure it's what Sam wants to hear, so he says it.

Sam's shoulders slump and Dean can just make out his reflection in the glass. "She let go."

Dean glances down at the meter in his hand, then out the window, then at the back of Sam's head. Nope, still doesn't make sense. "Who let go?"

Sam keeps looking out the window and now it's starting to get annoying, because there's nothing out there, nothing but grass and sidewalks and the boring blank face of suburbia. Okay, the Impala's parked out there, and she's worth a look, but it's not like Sam hasn't seen her before. "Jayne," Sam says softly, patiently. Like he's explaining something to a two-year old. "She let go of Jerry's hand."

Sam's voice makes it clear this is a tragedy of epic proportions, but all Dean can come up with is a big _so what?_ But he knows how to play this game, he knows that Sam's emo and he's supposed to give a shit. He also knows there was a time not that long ago when Sam actually shared his feelings, when he wasn't Captain Cryptic, and he didn't force Dean to squeeze information out of him like the world's tallest (_and geekiest_) tube of toothpaste. Dean licks his lips, and settles on the proper response. "I know."

Sam turns away from the window, but he doesn't look at Dean. His eyes are on the mantle, studying the photographs of Leo. "She didn't choose her brother." Sam frowns, and his forehead creases, like he's confused. "Why wouldn't she choose her brother?" Sam's voice is sand and his eyes are black holes and Dean's pretty sure what he means is _why didn't you choose me?_ which sort of makes Dean want to break Sam's good hand. Or at the very least, smack that weepy look off his face.

Dean's mouth opens and he takes a breath because he's got plenty to say, because he _did_ choose Sam and he's sick and tired of the guilt that choice brought him. He's sick and tired of Sam's impression of the walking wounded, because it's him, _Dean_ who's practically the walking dead and—

"I'll always choose you," Sam says. "I won't let go."

Dean's mouth snaps shut and his teeth click together and the anger roiling in his gut evaporates like steam. Well, shit. That's not what he was expecting. That's just. Huh. His brain tells him to smirk, to shrug, to play it cool. But he can't, because his heart's been replaced by one that belongs to a twelve year old girl and he's got a lump in his throat, so he just nods. He knows a thing or two about not letting go.

Sam finally looks at Dean and he nods, like he's psyching himself up. "I'm not letting go," he says again. "I can save you." There's a thin wire of determination in his voice that Dean hasn't heard in a while, and it sounds pretty damn good. "I'm not giving up and neither are you," Sam says, eyes bright, pointing a finger at Dean.

Dean raises his hands. "Dude. Chill. Ain't nobody giving up around here."

ooooo

Sam's scrolling through more worship rituals on Google when Jerry calls. He's done this same search so often he has the results memorized, but he always comes back to it, desperate for something he's missed. He listens to the cadence of Dean's voice, not what he says, but he gleans enough to know Jayne's going to live. Sam closes his eyes, not in prayer exactly, but a kind of thanksgiving. Maybe this is a sign. If Jayne can live, so can Dean.

Dean flips his phone shut and sighs. "Jerry asked me to drive his truck over to the hospital." Dean lifts an eyebrow in silent invitation.

Sam rubs his eyes and types _every day is Tuesday_ into the Google search bar, then deletes it. He studies Dean's face. He tries not to think about the fact there are only so many more days he'll be able to see Dean roll his eyes or grin. He fails. Sam gestures to the laptop. "You mind if I stay here?"

"Nah. Work your research mojo. I'll bring food back." Dean pauses at the door, snaps his fingers to get Sam's attention. "Hey man, I'll make you a deal."

Sam lifts his head, wary at Dean's choice of words. Dean's mouth twitches. "I won't bring back tacos if you promise not to clean the room."

"Whatever," Sam huffs, but his mouth twitches back.

ooooo

The knock on the door makes Sam jump. He drops the _Prose Edda_ onto the table and checks his watch. Dean's been gone over an hour. Sam checks for the weight of the gun in his waste band and goes to the door. He peers through the peep hole to see an oblong Jerry Panowski standing outside their room.

Sam frowns and opens the door. "Jerry? Is everything okay? I thought Dean was supposed to meet you at the hospital."

Jerry nods, hands in his pockets. "Oh sure. Everything's fine. Jayne's gonna be okay." Jerry smiles and there's something a little off about his expression that puts Sam on edge. "I just wanted to stop by and say thanks."

Sam darts a look past Jerry but there's no one else around. The parking lot is deserted save for a few old model cars speckled with rust. He wonders how Jerry got here, but he says "Thanks for what?"

"For believing in me. Not many do nowadays. And you're persistent. I like that. Of course you're also annoying as hell, but you gotta take the good with the bad." Jerry pulls what looks like a recipe card from his pocket. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

Confused, Sam takes the card, looks down at it. It's blank.

Jerry turns to walk away, stops. "And just for the record, I'm not a freaking vampire, Sam." His smile turns into a grin. "Sunflower seeds are good, but corn nuts are better." Jerry winks and points to his ear. "Don't call me, I'll call you."

Sam's mouth drops open, finally getting it. No way. It can't be. He can hear the squeal of tires and the slam of a car door as Jerry ambles away. But it's _not_ Jerry. It's—

Sam flips the card over in time to hear Dean ask _What was that all about?_ Fine rectangular print flows across the card, line after line of detailed instructions. Sam ignores Dean, ignores the way his heart hammers, and shouts after the receding figure. "Wait!"

The figure turns and it's not Jerry at all, it's _him_, and he's almost on the other side of the lot and Sam takes off, legs pumping. His cast feels like an anvil stuck to the end of his arm, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care because--

The Trickster touches two fingers to his forehead and salutes Sam. "You owe me, Winchester."

Sam nods, and he thinks (_thank you thank you_) he should ask what, exactly, he owes and his stomach lurches toward his feet but he doesn't care, it doesn't matter, he'll pay whatever he owes and he'll pay _gladly_ because this means—

"This will do it?" Sam asks, and his voice sounds too thin, like the wrong answer will break it. He clutches the card tightly in his good hand and the cardstock cuts into the soft skin between his thumb and index finger but it doesn't hurt at all. It feels like hope.

"For being the brainy one you're kind of slow on the uptake aren't you?" the Trickster drawls.

Sam nods stupidly and he's grinning like a fool and the pain in his stomach recedes and the weight on his shoulders lifts just a little and he can breathe. It doesn't feel like Tuesday. "Thank you," Sam whispers.

"Adios," the Trickster replies and snaps his fingers.

And then Sam's standing alone with a slightly bent recipe card clenches in his hand until Dean catches up to him and yells "Jesus Christ Sam, what did you _do?_"

Sam studies the card again, checks to make sure the writing is still there. He reads through the ritual once, twice, and it makes sense, it's doable. It might actually work. Sam looks up into Dean's pinched face and he swallows. "I think I found a way to save you."

Dean shakes him and his face is panicked. "And you trust that son of a bitch?"

Sam has no choice. He doesn't answer, just lets Dean swear and yank on his sleeve. He catalogues what he'll need for the ritual.

"Listen to me," Dean demands, and Sam does. "What do you have to do? I mean, what do you get? A year? More?"

Sam laughs. He can't help it. He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and his smile's so wide his face hurts. "You," he says, "I get _you_."


End file.
